Willie Maiket - Her Secret Sex Life

"Hell, it's a rainy night and Dad won't be back till maybe Monday morning. What's a guy gonna do for kicks?" the blond boy groaned.

Heather gave him a long hard look, her eyes narrowing as they studied his wiry half-nakedness. "Are you feeling horny enough tonight, little brother, to get some real kicks?" she at last demanded.

"Sure, Sis, if you mean am I up to giving you a good hot poke, the answer is hell yes, with bells on."

"Get that idea out of your head right now, Tim. I'm not after a brotherly fuck. Oh sure, I don't mind your working me off and helping you out sometimes, but I'm just a little older than you and when I really need a fuck it's going to be from a guy who's got plenty of savvy and knows how to make a girl come before he does. No, that wasn't what I had in mind at all"

"Then really what the hell are you talking about, Heather? I guess I'll go read one of my books or maybe run a new stag movie my buddy Jeff Morley picked up for me at Weird Harold's last week."

"That's it!" Heather Woodling slid out of bed, her hands smoothing the filmy shortie nightie about her delectably curved hips, her eyes suddenly glistening with malice. "I've got a much better idea for that movie camera and projector set of yours, little brother, if you're man enough."

"Hey, Sis, you're really stacked-come on, let's do a sixty-nine, you've got me all worked up in that sexy nightie of yours!" the blond boy sniggered as he moved closer to his sister and, his left hand moving round to palm one of her opulent, firm buttocks, cupped her left breast with his other hand and tried to kiss her on the mouth.

"Cut that out, you randy little no-good bastard! All you're good for is jacking off and reading dirty books and watching fuck movies. What I've got in mind calls for a man," Heather snapped as she twisted out of his grasp.

"No cause for you to run me down, Sis. You know damn well I could screw if you'd only give me the chance," he glowered. "Look at what I've got, just looking at you in that nightie. Take it off, Sis, and I'll show you if I'm a man or not!" He pointed to the visibly projecting thrust of his penis against the taut fly of his pajama pants.

"Oh sure, so you've got a hard-on! Big deal!" Heather sneered. "Let me ask you one question, little brother. How do you feel about our new stepmother?"

"What's that got to do with my hard-on?" He gave her a surly look.

Heather's laugh was brittle and mocking. "Maybe everything. But answer the question."

"Okay, I'll go along with it. I hate her guts. So what does that get us? Dad married her and they're going to live happily ever after."

"Maybe not," the redhead mused. "Maybe if Dad found out she's just a dirty bitch, he might kick her out, and then we could go back to being a family threesome, the way we were before he went off his rocker and brought her into this house."

"Hey, Sis, you're talking crazy. How are we going to do that? Me, I think he was a damn fool to go off and get married at his age, even though it's been ten years since Mom died. Why couldn't he have gone on with one-night stands, the way I'll bet he's done until he met up with that fancy interior decorator bitch?" Timothy grumbled.

"You can be sure about it. I found his little black memo book in the secretary drawer downstairs last spring when I was looking for Mother's last letter from the hospital. He gets his ashes hauled by some call girl every so often. Well, I don't mind that at all. But what I do mind is his thinking that any other bitch is going to come in here and boss us around and be our mother after we lost the only one we had and the only one we'll ever care about. Are you with me or not?"

"I said I was," the blond boy whined. "And it gripes me to see her sucking up to Dad and then coming around us with that gooey smile of hers and trying to be so sweet and nice and thinking she's going to make us love her like her own kids."

"You hit the nail right on the head, Timmy. That's why I asked you just now if you were man enough to prove that she's just a no-good bitch. We'll need your Kodak Instamatic."

"Hey now, tell me morel" his eyes widened as he studied his sister's flushed, spite-contorted lovely face.

"All right. I'll tell you. And just shut up while I'm talking. What I want from you is -action, not conversation. Now listen." She moved to him, put her-hands on his shoulders and began to talk softly and swiftly…

It was after midnight, and the storm had subsided, though the faint rumble of thunder was occasionally heard and the rain still beat against the windows as if demanding entrance. Rachel Woodling had smoked a last cigarette before going to bed, then removed negligee, bra and panties, put on a pair of green satin pajamas and taken a sleeping pill. It had worked almost at once, despite her troubled thoughts. Yet even as she lay on her left side with an arm flung out towards the headboard, her exquisite face was taut with anxiety evoked by a kind of strange hallucinatory dream that had seemed to begin the moment she had closed her eyes and let the sleeping pill carry her off into the black void of slumber. She was walking in a canyon, whose, rocky crags towered high above her head, blotting out even the leaden sky. She was naked, and the wind was cold and pitiless, and the pebbles and rough ground bruised her bare feet. She kept calling out for Timothy, but she could not hear even the echo of her own voice, and there was no one in the canyon to respond.

Very slowly and silently the door of her bedroom opened, and Heather and young Timothy tiptoed in. The boy set his movie camera down on a chair near the door and nodded to his red haired sister, who put her finger on her lips, then whispered, "Lock the door, Timmy and remember what I told you.

"Sure, Heather. Boy, this is wild-I've really got to hand it to you!" he whispered back excitedly.

As he turned the key in the lock, Heather felt for the light switch and flicked it on. She moved towards the double bed, her lips curling in sadistic contempt as she studied Rachel's sleeping figure under a single sheet. Then, beckoning to her brother, she tugged the sheet off and began to unbutton Rachel's pajama tops.

In her dream, Rachel Woodling shrank with terror as she saw two masked figures garbed in black approaching her from the distant end of the canyon. She turned to run, but she could not move. The cold air sent its penetrating gusts against her naked breasts and loins, and her toes crispened as the bite of the harsh earth and the pebbles chafed them.

"Wake up, Mummy!" Heather sarcastically crooned, pulling the unbuttoned flaps of the pajama tops apart to expose the magnificent olive-sheened, dark coral-tipped pears of her stepmother's rhythmically swelling breasts.

"Boy, has she got a pair of bombers on her, though! I'll bet Dad really goes for those!" young Timothy breathed, his eyes narrowed and fixing on Rachel's naked bosom, while he surreptitiously slipped one hand to his bulging fly.

"You stupid little bastard, I didn't bring you in here to jack-off looking at her, now you just remember!" Heather hissed as she fixed him with a withering look. "Get the camera, I'll wake her up!"

As her brother hurried back to take the movie camera from the chair, adjust Its controls and set it on the bed, his red-haired sister bent to Rachel's still inert figure and, with a malicious giggle, applied her lips to one dark-rosy nipplebud and began to suck and flick it with the tip of her pert pink tongue.

"Boy, this is better than those stag movies," Timothy enthused as he pressed his finger down on the starter button and the whirring sound of picture talking was heard.

Rachel Woodling moaned softly, rolled over onto her back, her arm still flung out beyond her head, but her other hand tentatively groping, brushing Heather's shoulder as the redhead, sitting on the edge of the bed, pursued her oral ministrations. Between her lips she could feel the soft bud she was nuzzling grow turgid and flinty, and she could feel also the quickened rhythm of her stepmother's breathing. The boy holding the movie camera was shivering with sexual arousal, and he had already unbuttoned the fly of his pajama pants to liberate his taut, lean, rigid penis, the large mushroom-cap-like glans set off from the shaft by a wide, shallow circumcisional groove.